


Óðr

by XX_CALIBRE



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Angst, Blood and Violence, F/M, Fluff, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Vili, Interactive, M/M, Mentions of canon deaths, Minor Character Death, Multiple Endings, Post-Canon, Romance, Slow To Update, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XX_CALIBRE/pseuds/XX_CALIBRE
Summary: Caledfwlch, the powerful weapon. Caledfwlch, the insanity bringer.
Relationships: Eivor/Vili Hemmingson, Randvi/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologue: The Becoming

It started during a raid.

It started during the moonlit pillaging of a monastery hidden from eyes, hidden in the snow of Snotinghamscire and Eurvicscire. The monastery was grandeur, its impressiveness built by the Roman giants—perfectly constructed for worship; perfectly ripe for the taking. Its old stone, unforgotten despite the harsh snowy storms; its old statues of Roman gods and goddesses, forgotten by a single image.

Vili led the charge, being the first man to step onto exposed dirt and grime.

The bloodlust in Vili’s eyes brought a sneer to his lips. The monastery would soon be buried in sanguine. Such a captivating colour for a dull place of worship.

The monastery _was_ doused in blood.

There was so much crimson. Too much scarlet. Vermillion fell _everywhere_ ; on the ground, walls, faces, the dead. This monastery had more men than usual. This monastery had more combat than usual. Unfortunately, it had been undermined by the many minds of the Raven Clan.

“You said it was a monastery! Easy for us to take!”

Because it was no mere monastery.

“Never trust the word of a _fucking_ Saxon, Finnr!”

T’was a sick, cursed _fortress_.

The monastery was in the most inner circle of the area, and their prize was not left unprotected. Heavily guarded by two, three, four barracks of at least two dozen men in each. It was not a monastery to be undermined. The Raven Clan had to plough through dozens of men before any of them could dream of finding any raw materials for the Settlement. The men and women of Ravensthorpe screamed their battle cry as they mutilated the Saxons, shattered their shields, and _ripped_ through the Christian’s lines of defense.

They were _unstoppable_.

Their prized Drengr separated the lines of Ravensthorpe’s warriors, splitting their numbers right down the middle. His father's great axe in one hand and his own in another, he walked with _killer intent_. Blood already dried on his skin, he wanted more. Needed more Saxons to send six feet under the ground.

Vili Hemmingson, the man who had the mind of a troll in the body of an Aesir was their prized gem.

“Leave no soldier alive!” He growled, his eyes shining with the itch to kill _something_.

The warriors of Ravensthorpe, of Midgard, let their horns fill the burning air of ash. They tore through the first gate, caking the area with oil and setting it ablaze with their torches. Ravensthorpe breached through the gates like Helheim’s winds; powerful, deadly. In this circle, the Saxons were easy to kill; they lacked armour and weapons, skills and strength.

The second circle _finally_ became a challenge for the toughest of warriors Ravensthorpe had to offer. Woe-Bringers, Standard Bearers, Kinsmen, Housecarls, Banneret, and Gedrihts. All the fighters Vili needed to get his blood running. Insanity bubbled inside of him, ripping at his senses. He dodged, parried, attacked. With no waste of breath, he jumped from Housecarl to Banneret to Kinsman.

Hel would have been proud.

Dozens of men fell to Vili’s dual great axes, their blood coating his iron. The pungent smell of carmine was not enough to agitate his stomach. He _bathed_ in his kills, he _bathed_ in their iron-smelling rouge. But their raid was not complete. In their sight, the last gate. In their sight, the monastery. In their sight, the hoards of silver. With enough Saxons sent to their Hell, Ravensthorpe approached the last gate but from within did it open. Hemmingson’s guard raised exponentially but it dropped all the same when he saw mint frost.

Vili should have known his husband would beat them to their prize.

Standing in utter splendour was Eivor Varinsson, cladded in his armour set of blue and gold. In each hand, Eivor carried the prized weapons of England and the Norse: Caledfwlch and Gungnir, respectively. His eyes, home to auroras, glowed at each swipe of his weapons. His strikes killing foes one by one in one fell swoop.

Almost side by side did they fight and kill. In perfection synchronisation, Vili strikes up and Eivor strikes below. In perfection synchronisation, they ripped arms and legs from their sockets, they ripped heads from their necks. It was safe to say the both of them truly forgot why they were to the borders of Snotinghamscire and Eurvicscire. The ground beneath Vili’s feet almost _cracks_ at the force of a Dive of the Valkyries. Who it was, Vili did not need to look. Only _one_ man would _dare_ come close to him when he’s blinded by bloodlust, and that was Eivor. Only _one_ could, and that was his husband. To Vili’s left, the bright flash of Caledfwlch blinds many except one. Vili did not miss the ghost of a kiss on his cheek when Eivor closed the distance between them. “I’m on my nineteenth kill, Arse-stick!” Eivor laughed as he threw Gungnir like the javelin it was, watching its blade sink into muscle and bone. “Seems like you’re cleaning Rowan’s shit-filled stables!”

Vili snorted with a sneer plastered on his lips, sending a Saxon to hell with the clean cut of his axe on their jugular. “I’ve counted twenty, Chicken Draugr! _Including_ the little ones. It’s your turn tonight!”

The battle field went from dirt and grime to blood and bone in _seconds_ because two men opted for a bet and neither would _dare_ lose to their husband. Ravensthorpe’s Drengr and Jarl stood back to back, clutching their weapons with a vice grip. Their eyes, still hungry for more. Their eyes, scouting. When the battle cries ceased and was replaced by shrieks of victory, Vili turned on his heels—

Eivor was no longer by his side. Eivor was no longer with him. No, he did not vanish. He was there, heading towards the monastery. Neither Gungnir nor Caledfwlch were thrown over his shoulders; Eivor dragged the tips of his weapons over the vermillion-stained ground.

Then did Vili see it.

Vili saw the shadow that grew over Eivor’s eyes.

His husband did not look well.

Hemmingson ordered the rest to start pillaging, finding his legs to chase after Eivor who disappeared into the monastery. When inside the Saxon’s excuse of a holy site, Eivor’s presence was non-existent. Vili did not see where his husband was nor could he hear where he was. When inside the Saxon's excuse of a holy site, Vili realised it was adorned with silver, so perfectly ripe for the taking—that was not Vili’s goal. Inside, the columns and rows of benches held cowering locals—that was _not_ Vili’s goal.

Vili heard metal on bone after he saw it.

Standing was Eivor Varinsson, cladded in his armour set of blue and gold. In one hand, Eivor carried a weapon, and in the other… was a head. Eivor spun on his heels, and his eyes, home to auroras, glowed. The shadow Vili saw that grew over Eivor’s eyes…

His husband was not well.

“Eivor…” Vili tried to find his breath, too shocked at the sight of the decapitation of their own raider. “That…” The air in Vili’s lungs was trapped; he couldn’t breathe. “That was Sunniva. _That was your scout_!”

Ravensthorpe’s Jarl had his eyes lifted from her head, and they landed on Vili. Vili’s eyes widened. His mint frost. Where was his mint frost? Where were the eyes that held auroras in them? Why—

What did not seem to be his husband, Eivor tossed Sunniva’s stolen head towards Vili’s feet. A hint of satisfaction— _pleasure_ —when Vili turned paler than pale. Eivor moved with no grace when he reached for Caledfwlch, laying in wait on the ground. As if heavy in his hold, Eivor dragged its pointed end across the floor. He was walking towards Vili then. Eivor was walking towards Vili with _killer intent_. Eivor’s movements were no longer fluid, no longer elegant nor bewitching but tight, and stiff.

His eyes glowed a sickening gold and Eivor _leaped_ , raising his weapons above his head for a head-crunching attack—

The loudest of clanging metal _shattered_ air and _tore_ his heart.

Caledfwlch, halted by Hemming’s great axe.

Gungnir, frozen by Vili’s axe.

Eivor, stopped by Vili.

They fought against each other’s strength. Eivor pushed his weight, and Vili pushed his. It was _folly_ to try, he knew. Vili’s weapons were no match to those wielded by gods and kings. His father’s axe started to shriek when Caledfwlch buried itself into metal, cutting and chipping. Before Caledfwlch could even _try_ to strike his face, Vili shoved Eivor with the strength he had left with an angered shout bursting his lungs.

“Gods!” Vili growled, fighting for his breath as his weapons started to go slack in his hold. Hemmingson was losing his energy too quickly. This was not good. That was _not_ good for Vili. He taught Eivor everything he knew; jabs, slices… how to find his opponents’ weaknesses before they knew it themselves. “Eivor! _What_ is wrong with you?!”

And yet, Vili received nothing but a snarl.

Ravensthorpe’s Jarl staggered but his grip on his weapons remained vice-like. Vili expected Eivor to stop but continue was what he did. Another leap, and he burst through the air, sword and spear raised above his head for a heavy downwards. His eyes flashed a terrifying gold as his dire need to _kill his husband_ became clear. Vili did not know anything else. Vili did not know what else Eivor wanted except for his head. Vili dashed back, dodging his ridiculous swing towards his head. He blocked his attack, causing his father’s axe to chip once again. Eivor pushed herself back and continued swinging. Begging for his sword to _scar_ Vili. But Vili was no easy prey. He was still Eivor’s teacher in the art of fighting. He was an _expert_ in finding multiple chances to drive Eivor back, parrying his attacks, dodging Eivor’s newfound lust to kill him. Vili was the _perfect_ opponent for Eivor. Again their weapons sliced through air. A swing from the top was Vili’s answer, a swing from the bottom was Eivor’s reply, and a swing from the sides was a warning—Eivor was not stopping.

He was _not_ stopping.

Neither was Vili.

The bloodlust in Eivor’s eyes brought a sneer to his lips. The monastery would soon be buried in _pools_ of sanguine. Such a captivating colour for a dull place of worship.

His husband swung his weapons in perfect coordination, changing his tactics. Eivor desperately started attacking where Vili was weak, attacking where Vili dropped his guard for a mere second. Gungnir followed Caledfwlch, Gungnir shadowed Caledfwlch. Eivor was a _demon_ when he fought. _Nothing_ could touch him. _Nothing_ could penetrate him. Hysteria personified, not even the best of Drengr could manifest the same level of mania.

Vili could only block each and every hit Eivor threw at him. No, that was a lie. He _could not_ block each and every hit. Gungnir’s reach often extended by a force field, it burnt Vili’s skin. Caledfwlch’s pale golden glow often shrieked, it took Vili’s sight.

The hidden blade reopened a scar across Vili’s eyebrow if not made it wider and longer than it already was… _deeper_ than it previously was. Gungnir stabbed his side where a bear gnawed on his flesh when he went out hunting with his father once. Caledfwlch tore through Vili’s left shoulder, almost severing the limb from its socket; the limb loosely hung, forcing Vili to drop his weapon. The tips of his fingers went numb, the rush of blood prickling and stabbing him like thousands of nails.

Eivor had Vili pinned between himself and the wall; his breath, cold as Jotunheim’s snow. There was a shadow which laid upon Eivor’s eyes, and it _blackened_. Eivor had him by the neck, squeezing— _ridding_ the air Vili once had in his lungs. Gungnir hummed behind Eivor, pulsating as if tempting Eivor to make a mistake. Pulsating as if tempting Eivor to drive Caledfwlch into skin, muscle, and bone.

It was then, Vili noticed, his mint frost… where was his mint frost? Where were the eyes that held auroras in them? His husband’s glorious aurora-like eyes were gone, and replaced by a stomach-churning ghastly aurous. Those eyes did not belong to Eivor.

_Pathetic._

It was then, Vili noticed, his husband’s soft melody of a voice was gone, and replaced by something rough, _old_. That voice did not belong to Eivor.

_Who are you?_

He couldn’t breathe. His peripherals darkened too swiftly. “Eivor—” Vili wheezed.

_Answer me!_

No. No, no _—nonononoNONONO._ You had to try. You must try. You had to bring him back. This was not Eivor. This was not your husband. This was someone else. Someone else was controlling him to do the things he would never do. You knew this. Eivor would never… no, you had to SAVE HIM. THIS WAS NOT HIM. “ _Eivor_ ,” Vili _wheezed_ ; crimson splitting his lips, blunt nails scarring the hand pressing down on his trachea. “It’s me. It’s Vili—it’s _Arse-stick_.”

_… Hemming’s boy? That_ fool _of a Jarl._

Eivor’s grip on Vili’s neck tightened. Eivor snarled then, baring his teeth like some wild animal resided in his human body.

_You are just like your father, cursed with the mind of a troll._

A pang. _No, Eivor._ In his chest, in his heart. _You cannot do this._ Vili could not speak. _Please._ Vili could not think.

It was then, Vili noticed, he was petrified. He began to fear the very same man he loved, the very same man he married. The very same man he grew up with. Eivor’s eyes shone a loathsome pale gold, matching Caledfwlch’s light. Pupils, gone. Irises, gone. Sclera, gone. All Vili could see was pale gold.

His husband drove him up further the wall, letting Vili’s feet dangle in the air with his toes barely touching the cold, hard floor. His vision was near black but he saw Caledfwlch’s eerie glow. He saw the tips of Eivor’s fingers glow and _burn_ the same _disgusting_ pale gold as his husband gripped his weapon. He _saw_ that weapon being raised… Vili knew. He knew what was going to happen.

_You should be dead for challenging a_ god _._

There was nothing but Niflheim when Caledfwlch struck his face.


	2. Ein: The Path

_Pathetic._

Stop.

_Who are you?_

Please.

_Answer me!_

That cannot be done—

_… Hemming’s boy? That_ fool _of a Jarl._

No. That… that was not his father. His father was no—

_You are just like your father, cursed with the mind of a troll._

He was _not_ like his father. You don’t know his father.

_You should be dead for challenging a_ god _._

You are _no_ go—

_Oh, but I am._

Caladfwlch tore through tissue and bone; severing heads, arms, and legs. Its master left fire in his wake, swinging and slashing—ignorant to whom he sent to Valhalla Helheim. A manic laugh ran from the clutches of his throat; pupils gone, irises gone, and sclera gone. Nothing loving nor human were in those eyes but the eerie glow of pale gold. He flipped Caledfwlch in his grip, its point facing downwards. With a massive pound of energy, its tip split the ground when driven into blood-soaked mud; it cracked the earth and its appendages clawed towards the circle that formed around him.

Eivor had his arms open with a smile of lust for death, pale gold sockets for eyes watching the crowd around him vibrate in _fear_. His weapons buried into the ground by his sides, their hums shaking the earth beneath their feet. A manic sneer adorned his lips, a manic laugh ran from the clutches of his throat. The tips of his fingers had finally cracked open, revealing not blood, but that sickly pale gold; its crooked pattern grew from fingertip to elbow in _seconds_. The cracks in his skin shone with a vengeance, just like his eyes.

_Did you not want this, Tyr? Did you not once wish to be_ powerful _?_

Terror belched as the Jarls of Ravensthorpe went head to head; their metal cracking and clanging. Eivor had a manic sneer seared into his lips; his skin continued to crack and burn at his digits, the golden fury of heat travelling the course of his arm. Sigurd couldn’t keep up, not even with the heavy training he forced upon himself. Now with his dominant arm gone. Eivor carried both Gungnir and Caledfwlch, both slicing and searing his skin.

Eivor had always been the better fighter, _that_ he could not lie. Even without the handicap, Eivor had _always_ been the _better_ fighter.

Sigurd barely had enough stamina to counter Eivor’s blind calculations. He had no choice but to take the full brunt of his brother’s Rage of Helheim; bruises, cuts, splits—his face sported everything bloody. It was the harpoon that took Sigurd off his guard; the rope clung onto his neck as it wrapped around once, twice, _thrice_.

But Eivor did not pull him off his feet.

Instead, the man with pale gold eyes switched Caledfwlch to his left hand and with a jab that cut through air, light exploded and blinded all but one. Stunning Sigurd, Eivor did not attack. Stunning Sigurd, he threw Caledfwlch over his shoulder. Stunning Sigurd, Eivor kept his grip taut on the rope that suffocated him.

_You have become a_ terrible _fighter, brother._

_And you… you—_

_Save your breath, you_ know _my fight is not with you. I will be taking my leave._

_Eivor, don’t you dare—_

That _is no longer my name._

_EIVOR VARINSON._

That was not his name. It no longer was. He no longer responded to the name, he no longer twitched, jumped, reacted to the name. But you tried. Again, and again. You _tried._ You tried to win him back but it was no use, he was too far gone. So far. Where did he go? Where did Eivor go? There were stories of Valhalla, Helheim. Asgard, Midgard. But there weren’t enough about Niflheim. It was a place of dark, shadow. You stood in an ocean of unsettling water. You stood with a shake; the hair on his limbs were standing, too. It was a place of mist, fog. You stood in an ocean of vermilion.

Were you dead?

No hammer, no great axe, no weapon.

You were dead.

Died by excessive blood loss, died without your weapons. No Valkyrie came for you. Not even Hel would accept you. You were stuck in Niflheim, the realm of nothing. You had no heartbeat, nothing. He had no warmth, nothing. You had no breath, _nothing_.

As if stripped of your senses.

As if stripped—

_Pleasure to finally meet you where blood cannot be spilt._

As if—

_Are you ignoring me?_

There were stories of Valhalla, Helheim. Asgard, Midgard. But there wasn’t enough about Niflheim. Were you not supposed to be alone? 

_I can move from realm to realm, if need be._

As if that answered any of your unspoken questions.

_Do not worry, I cannot harm you here. I carry no weapons._

You glared at the shape of the dark, not knowing where its eyes were. The form was much smaller than yours, having to lower your gaze to see its crown. A black mist it was, barely shaped to look human. Its voice, you could not recognise but it was not pleasant to your ears. Rough, disembodied, hauntingly melodic. It was scratching your eardrums with its song. Yet you could not shut it up. You could not shut it out.

_You have no power in Niflheim, I’m afraid._

_What are you?_

The voice that flowed from your throat was not yours. You carried no tune that could carry your words through a song. The echo in your words brought discomfort to your ears.

_I am stuck in between, as you are. I am nothing more than a mere shadow of a man who once was and shall never be._

Who? Who was this man? Who was this man the shadow spoke of that made his body of mist tremble in _delight_? Pulsating white and black like as if it had a heart for a body?

_Funny what death does to a human. Some keep their memories while others…_

The shadow broke free from its cage. A black mist it once was, barely shaped to look human. Its voice, you once could not recognise but it had not been pleasant to your ears. Rough, disembodied, hauntingly melodic. It was scratching your eardrums with its song. A black mist it no longer was, a shape of a man smaller than you were. Its voice, you could recognise but it was hollow, broken, _lifeless_.

T’was a man with blond hair, and a voice that could lull you to sleep.

T’was a man who was your husband.

_I almost pity you, Vili Hemmingson._

“EIVOR!”

Louder than Thor’s thunder, Vili’s heart hammered against his chest. Beads of sweat raced down the track of his neck. He lurched, the wave of nausea washing over him. He clutched at his chest, digging his nails into his skin. His heart, rapid; punching against his sternum. If this was what a husband felt for his missing partner, he did not want it. It hurt. It stung. The bruises on his neck went from ghostly to present; he felt those fingers pressing into his skin and muscle. He _felt_ his air being stolen. 

_(How do you live?)_

How cruel fate had been twined, tearing Eivor away from his grip. How cruel fate had been laid at his feet, taking Eivor away from him. It had been years since Vili wasted a tear. The last was when he had to pay from a family he grew to love, to cherish. How cruel fate was to pull them apart one more time. Vili choked on his sob, his skin scratched apart with his blunt nails as he dug them deep into his tissue. Red lines, red wounds laid where he heart was.

His heart was heavy, so heavy. His body, rigid and painful. His sobs were loud, _aching_ for Eivor to come back. To come home. His touch, his voice, his laughter, his smile… it was all gone. As if Eivor had been wiped _clean_. Like he did not exist. It was then, Vili knew, he was terrified. Pupils, gone. Irises, gone. Sclera, gone. All gone except the cold him of pale gold.

All gone except for the hungry sneer that stitched his husband’s lips.

All of it was _gone_ but the _—_

“Vili. Please, listen to my voice.”

All gone—

“Come back to the world of the living.”

With a shaky breath, Vili lifted his gaze. T’was Valka, and she appeared to have slept in Helheim.

Pale, lifeless; her tattoos were no longer vibrant, her _eyes_ no longer held the same shine everyone loved. She approached Vili with so much caution, her feet light as feathers. Valka sat at the edge of the bed. She feared speech. She feared to project words, but she needed no foresight to know Vili needed to hear _something_. To drown out the sounds he was cursed to hear. “I was told what happened.” Valka’s voice, once melodious and sweet, now soft and broken. Rough. Had she been crying, too? “I was told… how many are now seated with the All Father.” Valka’s voice, once mellifluous and enchanting, now too soft and too broken. Too rough. She, too, had been shedding tears. “We have lost too many.”

“To Eivor.”

_(You fool! That was not his name!)_

“Yes. To Eivor.”

Vili did not know what to say. What to do. He could not move to touch her, hold her. Not with the state his arm was in. Not with the state his abdomen was in. Not with the state Eivor put him in. Everything hurt so, so much. He was _weak_. He was a _fool_. He was so _pathetic._ Vili did not mean for any of this to happen. Vili did not mean to fail. “Gods, I am sorry,” he finally spoke; cheeks wet with tears, lips reddened by a reopened split. “I am _so_ sorry, Valka. I couldn’t—I couldn’t save him.”

He was so far. Eivor was so _far_. In his dreams—in many, many dreams did he stand in nothing. He stood in silence. He stood in frost. He stood in the dark. But he was not alone. He saw Eivor there, standing with his back turned towards him. Vili reached out and ran to him but the closer he got, the further Eivor went.

He was alone; very alone.

Until warmth crept up from the tips of his fingers. Valka had her hand around Vili’s, tight and determined. Her eyes, still lined with tears, hummed a blessing. Was it Seidr magic? “You were not able to save him then, but you may be able to save him when the time comes.”

“What do you know?”

She was so far. Valka was so _far_. But in his reality, she remained by his side. She remained because she knew he needed someone. _Anyone_. Even when Randvi came by, when Sigurd came by… she remained by his side. He did not need Seidr magic to know Randvi would avoid the topic of Eivor. He did not need Seidr magic to know Sigurd, who walked into the longhouse… who walked into his bedroom with a solemn expression stitching his face, to tell him their losses.

_After what Eivor did to you, he did not stop. None of us could stop him. He fought like a_ god _,_ _Vili. Nearly two dozen are currently injured and are in need of desperate care. Half of that number, we lost to his mania. Visit them when you are able._

And finding out who had been killed did happen. It happened not long after Sigurd left to find comfort in his wife. Valka warned Vili that he should not be moving too much, undoubtedly in fear of ripping his wounds wide open. He reassured her that in her care, he would be fine. Finding no use to argue, Valka eased him out of bed, letting him lean onto her as he balanced the weight off the side that still hurt.

It was when they finally left the longhouse, he realised it was difficult to remind himself that Ravensthorpe was once a bustling town. He found it difficult to remind himself that Ravensthorpe was once a town of happiness, family, laughter, _love_.

None of that existed. Not anymore.

It was ominous, the silence, in the late morning.

The air was thick, the Clan was pale. No utterance of words, no shuffling of children’s feet. Not even the clanging metal of Gunnar’s shop. The heaviness in the air seemed to lighten by the graves. That did not mean anything. Dread still lingered. A hint of malice weaved itself in the air. The stench of iron, so strong.

The graves of six doubled. Svend, Dag, and Hunwald in their respective places. One of the older graves was for Eivor’s lieutenant; the rascal. Through thick and thin, they fought by Eivor’s side—never letting Eivor leave their sight for even just one second. Another grave was Sunniva’s final resting place; Vili was ashamed he could not save her—he was right there. He could have said something. He could have done something. All he could remember was the swipe of Caledfwlch that severed her head from her neck.

Some of the new graves were for Eivor’s Raiders. All of which Vili did not know much about… except for their names: Yrsa, Hrefna, Fyl, Valtar, Sten… but their presence meant something to Ravensthorpe, to Vili. It did not take much to remember how loyal they were to their Clan… to their Jarl. They would take an axe to the head if need be. They would have greeted Death like an old friend if need be.

Vili ran his fingers over their shields, their weapons, bidding them all a final goodbye. Vili stood with his shoulders heavy and taut, and his legs about to cave into gravity. Alas, he was not done. Not every grave has been visited by him. He did not know if he could stay sane with another. He did not know if he was going to break with another.

But there was a new grave on the hill behind Dag. There was a new grave where the sun shone through the thick walls of leaves and branches. There was a new grave that had the gods smiling upon it.

There was a new grave and it was Rollo’s.

Hemmingson collapsed at the sight of the boy’s shield that was put on display; he’d lost his breath again. This time, Vili was certain it was never going to return. He lurched, the wave of nausea washing over him. He clutched at his chest, digging his nails into the fabric of his undershirt. His heart, rapid; punching against his sternum. If this was what a husband felt for his missing partner, he _did not want it_.

He did not want to know who else was then dining with the All Father. He could not. Not if he wanted his heart to cease beating. The air was thick, the Clan was pale. No utterance of words, no shuffling of children’s feet. Not even the clanging metal of Gunnar’s shop. There was _nothing_ in the town that emitted life—

A wretched, broken sob escaped the confinements of Vili’s throat. The utterance of apologies, the thumping of his fists. He wept by Rollo’s grave. The boy was still a _boy_. Rollo was _still so young_ and his life had been _ripped away too soon_.

“Eivor, you _fool_.” Vili fought through tear-stricken bursts of air. “You _sick_ , _cursed_ bacraut.”

* * *

It was ominous, the silence, at night.

The longhouse filled with life but held none. Quiet was the longhouse. Dark was the longhouse. As if hope no longer danced in the winds. As if joy no longer danced in the winds. Many had been crying, Many sought revenge. Many… many missed their friends, the ones who were killed. The ones who were butchered.

Tove closed her shop. Norvid was missing. Swanburrow returned to Grimsby.

Vili sat on the Jarl’s high seat, elbow upon the armrest and forehead rubbed with the pads of his fingers. Quiet was the longhouse but not his mind. Voices. Screams. Shouts. Growls. Everything was a _storm_ in his head. Those begging him to bring Eivor back. Those begging him to bring Eivor his Hel. Those voices, screams, shouts, and growls—so _loud_ , he could not hear the arguments that now echoed in the hall. Tekla stood in outrage, throwing heated curses at Gunnar. Yanli stood in betrayal, shrieking at Rowan. The children, once hidden under the table to steal mead from the adults, now cowered in fear to protect themselves from the adults.

“Vili was left fighting Valkyries for two weeks! How dare you think Eivor has _any_ chance to return!?”

There were two sides of the longhouse.

~~_(He does not need to return to you. He’s where he should be.)_ ~~

“Eivor is still our Jarl whether you like it or not! When Sigurd was living his darkest days, we _still_ listened to him, _did we not_?!”

There were _always_ two _fucking_ choices.

~~_(Must I repeat myself? He should not return. He does not need you.)_ ~~

“Are you a _fool_ to believe the man you saw, the man you fought, was Eivor in his right mind?” Randvi dared ask, her temper forcing the screaming to a shut. She _dared_ ask from one of the tables in the longhouse, her eyes cold and ruthless as she folded her arms over her chest. “You said his eyes were _gold_ and not even _close_ to being human. What makes you think that _that_ is Eivor?”

“You were not there, Randvi,” Sigurd hissed in reply, standing from the opposite side of the longhouse. “May I remind you that it came from _your_ mouth that no matter what happens to a man’s Hugr, he should be blamed for not fighting what ills him.”

Mugs of mead jumped when Randvi threw a fist onto the table, eyes _hot_ with anger. The children beneath her table _whimpered_ under her wrath. Never did Ravensthorpe come across such emotion. “Do _not_ make me regret marrying you once more, Sigurd Styrbjornson. Eivor is your _brother_. He is your _Jarl_.”

Never did Vili have to _shut it up_. Hemmingson stood with thunder on his heels, his palms slapping the armrests of the Jarl high seat. “ _Enough_.” The contact his palms made with the wood reverberated through the longhouse, causing husband and wife to stop acting like children whose sweets were stolen. Vili watched as husband and wife turned their attention onto him, their anger barely subsided. “Do not make _me_ confine you both. This matter is my own, I do not need any other opinion.”

Randvi. ever the pragmatic woman, lowered her gaze and sunk into her seat. “Apologies, Vili Jarl.”

“There’s no need to call me that in this situation.” He had his hand raised, dismissing the title thrown at him. 

~~_(You do not deserve such a title.)_ ~~

But he did. Vili occupied the Jarl’s high seat when Eivor was away or unfit, taking the role of the acting Jarl of Ravensthorpe. No one doubted his talents, his skills. No one doubted _him_. Not even when his left arm was to be out of commission for a few months, not when his own husband left him for dead.

From his seat, Vili saw the split in their settlement. Not very transparent, but it was enough for Vili to figure out that one party wanted to save Eivor, and the other… the other wished Helheim for Eivor. Vili fought a pang to his heart, rubbing his chest for the umpteenth time that day; it was difficult to breathe.

Randvi, like the smart woman she was, did not believe that was Eivor. Could not believe— _refused_ to believe. She’d known Eivor ever since she was tied to Sigurd, and it may be safe to say she knew him even from before she wedded Sigurd. She trusted Eivor, she admired Eivor… had one-sided feelings for Eivor.

_(It would take more than Thor’s hammer to break her wits.)_

Sigurd, on the other hand, was hot with rage. Vili did not blame him. From when Eivor’s parents were murdered nine winters along, Sigurd raised Eivor without a mother and with only a busy King for a father. Sigurd knew Eivor the best. More often than not, Sigurd and Eivor had the same mind, the same ambition, the same life. All ripped apart by the one raid.

~~_(It would take less than Thor’s hammer to break his wits.)_ ~~

Nevertheless, Vili did not blame Sigurd for his rage, but he could not let the older man follow the shadow that was cast. He ordered Sigurd out with a single lift of his finger that pointed towards the doors at the opposite end of the longhouse.

Sigurd left without a fight. Without a word. Not even a look over his shoulder.

~~_(It_ did _take less than Thor’s hammer to break him.)_ ~~

Quiet was the longhouse. Dark was the longhouse. As if life no longer danced in the winds. As if hope no longer danced in the winds. Many had been crying, Many sought revenge. Many missed the ones who were killed. The ones who were butchered. Vili could see it in their faces; those who hated, those who loved. Torn, did he feel. He did not know what to do. He _fought_ Eivor. He remembered every single cut, tear, bruise and _wound_. He remembered those eyes, he remembered that sneer. He remembered how much Eivor wanted to end his life and call for neither Hel nor Valkyrie to pick him.

He could not breathe.

“Vili.” Valka was never one to speak when Ravensthorpe gathered in the longhouse. She was so near. Valka was so _near_. He felt her presence, her warmth, her touch. She was his gravity now. Dear Valka appeared like a Valkyrie from the mist. Full of valour, life; her tattoos bore a high contrast that stood from her skin, her _eyes_ no longer held the same dull Vili saw that morning. She approached Vili with no caution. She stood at the edge of steps. She did not fear speech. “It is your decision.”

Vili took a moment to breathe, to remember he needed to breathe. Vili took a moment to stop thinking, drowning out the voices, screams, shouts, and growls. With a shaky breath, Hemmingson lifted his gaze from feet to the crowd before him. With a shaky breath, he hoped Ravensthorpe did not shun him for his decision.

_(This is your first choice of many, Vili Hemmingson. Choose wisely.)_

“I will save him,” | “If I can or cannot save him, that is for the gods to decide,” | “I cannot save him,” said Vili, his voice echoing through the lifeless hall and stagnant air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: TBC
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Remember which choice you have made._  
> 
> 
> **A:** “I will save him.”  
> 
> 
> **B:** “If I can or cannot save him, that is for the gods to decide.”  
> 
> 
> **C:** “I cannot save him.”

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank [**Pradelle**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pradelle) and [**Casassin**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casassin) for being absolute gems.


End file.
